Esoterica

Tuesday morning. Bed full of dust. I have enough energy to sit myself up against the wall, but not much else. The crusting on my arm is flaky now, the spongelike material now dry and soft. Beneath the flaking, there is a layer of pinkish yellows and greys, pushing its way through the decaying surface layer. There’s a number of smalls holes in the growth now; they undulate with a rhythm desynchronized from my breath or pulse. They’re arranged irregularly, a pattern that is not random but not uniform. Looking closer, each hole has the same circular form, with microscopic corrugations lining the interior. I insert the tip of a pen into one of the holes, and a low hum inside of my arm protests the congestion. I remove it to respect my guest.